


tomorrow is not promised (but tonight is on the table)

by ThirtySixSaveFiles



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Atlas CEO Rhys, First Words Soulmate AU, M/M, Rival CEOs, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-05 05:04:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13380750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirtySixSaveFiles/pseuds/ThirtySixSaveFiles
Summary: Ask anyone and they can tell you the story: that the words inked on your skin are the first words that your soulmate will say to you. That if you are in the right place at the right time, if you’re lucky, you’ll find the person made to complement you in every way.It’s easy to see why people want to believe it. The notion of a perfect partner is seductive, and some people spend their entire lives searching.Most people don’t beat the odds - and with humanity spread from the central planets to the farthest-flung outpost, the odds are pretty astronomical. A reasonable amount of basic compatibility and a visit to a decent tattooist are enough to satisfy tradition, for most people.The Hyperion president loudly, publicly, does not believe in that bullshit. The Atlas president keeps his counsel to himself.





	1. to overtake the moon

Rhys steels himself as the Hyperion shuttle touches down in front of the central Atlas facility. He had put this meeting off for as long as he could, but protocol being what it is, a face-to-face meeting was inevitable, especially with negotiations stalled. He’s spoken with Handsome Jack over the ECHO-net a few times, in conference calls and the rare video session, but this will be the first time he’s meeting the man in person.

It’s petty, but if this is going to happen he wants it to happen on his turf.

The shuttle engines cut and Rhys can see the pilot flipping off switches as the hatch pops open with a hiss of equalizing pressure. Handsome Jack is the first one out, bounding down the ramp with the air of a man who has utter confidence in either a personal shield or his draw time. Rhys has heard rumors of the second, and _no_ rumors about the first, so he assumes both are true.

Can't spread rumors if you’re dead, after all, and Handsome Jack has a reputation both for being...messy, and for coming out on top.

“Atlas.” Handsome Jack comes to a stop a few feet away, folding his hands behind himself and rocking back on his heels. “Thanks for the invite. You sure we couldn’t have done this on Helios?”

“Hyperion.” Jack always starts with Rhys’ title; Rhys can’t help but respond in kind, even as it puts him on guard. Rhys nods his head and Jack falls into step as Rhys turns away from the landing pad and heads for the facility. “The negotiation teams didn’t seem to be doing us any favors. And no, I’m not stepping foot on your station until you clear my security team.” He waves a hand at the guards stationed inside the door, and they step aside, eyeing Handsome Jack unhappily.

Jack snorts. “Your quote-unquote _security team_ has both a bomb specialist and an ex-Dahl commando on it. No way am I clearing them.”

Rhys shrugs as they move through the facility, nodding to employees as they pass. “Your loss, then.”

“Damn right. How much are you paying them, anyway? They were impossible to bribe.” Jack eyes the interior with interest. Rhys wonders what he makes of it. There are no floor-to-ceiling portraits, as are rumored to grace the halls of Helios; except for the occasional _Atlas_ brand, it could be any industrial facility.

“More than you’re offering, apparently.” That’s true in both senses; but that’s not something Rhys wishes to discuss. He pushes the door to the administrative suite open, trading utilitarian hallways for the soft glow of polished wood. His aide stands at her desk, clearly forewarned, and Rhys waves her down as he leads Jack towards his office. “Can I get you anything to drink before we get started?”

An hour and half a pitcher of triple-purified water later and they’ve got the major details of a joint mining venture worked out; Jack is surprisingly easy to work with, once Rhys moves past the abrasive exterior and the inflated self-worth.

Up to a point, anyway. Jack’s lowballing him on the fine print and Rhys has had about enough of it.

“Five percent of the yield from the Eridium mines located in Atlas territory.” Jack leans back and kicks his shoes up on Rhys’ desk, foot passing through the _Atlas_ hologram in a way that is almost certainly deliberate. “It’s a great offer; we do all the work, you sit back and look pretty.”

Rhys sighs. “It’s a terrible offer and you know it. Thirty percent of the yield, and a license to develop e-tech in perpetuity.”

Jack bares his teeth, absently twirling the stylus he’d lifted from Rhys’ desk between his fingers. “Ten percent, and I won’t moonshot your shitty facility from orbit.”

“As if it would make it through our defenses. Twenty percent, the e-tech license, and we’ll sell you radiation treatment at cost. None of the markup, and you’ll lose fewer workers.”

Jack waves a hand. “More where they came from.” Rhys raises a brow at that, reminded not for the first time that Atlas and Hyperion have significantly divergent recruitment and retention policies. But now is not the time or place to discuss company resource policies; the Atlas Board of Directors had approved a fifteen percent yield for this deal, with permission to go as low as ten during negotiations.

Rhys knows he can do better.

“Twenty percent,” he repeats, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward. “What does it take to get me to twenty?”

Jack leans back in the guest chair before the desk, folding his arms behind his head. His eyes flick down, and Rhys is suddenly acutely away of the way the neck of his shirt gapes, showing a hint of blue peeking up over the collarbone. His hands itch to fix it, to draw it closed, but drawing attention to it now would look like weakness and Rhys can’t afford that.

“Twenty percent, and you show me how far down that tattoo goes.” Jack leers, and Rhys rolls his eyes.

Jack shrugs. “Worth a shot.” He drops his feet off the desk and leans forward, the lines of his face dropping into something more serious. “Fifteen percent and you let me take you to dinner.” He sounds completely earnest and Rhys raises his eyebrows in spite of himself.

Jack’s...flirting (if Rhys stretches the definition) has been a hallmark of their...relationship (again, if Rhys uses the definition loosely) from the very beginning. Jack hits on people like he breathes; automatically, and without thought. Rhys had never taken it seriously, although it had been easy to dismiss over holomessage and ECHO-cast.

But Jack sounds serious now, and it’s somewhat less easy to dismiss from three feet away.

“Why?” Rhys asks before he can stop himself.

Jack shrugs again. “You’re hot, especially in person; you don’t give an inch, and _that’s_ hot - do I need a better reason?”

He doesn’t. Rhys wishes he hadn’t said anything. He traces the rim of his water glass with a finger; a nervous habit, but hard to break. Jack watches him smugly, uncharacteristically silent. Rhys thinks about the deal on the table, about what the tabloids will say if they’re seen together outside of business hours, outside of _business._

“Eighteen percent,” Rhys says finally. “Eighteen, the e-tech license, and I say yes to dinner.”

Jack laughs. “Dinner doesn’t get you that much - seventeen, and a limited license with the option to renegotiate after three years.”

Rhys smiles - three years is more than enough time to establish a foothold in the market, and seventeen percent of the yield will push development that much faster.

“Deal,” he says, extending his arm over the table, and Jacks grins and meets him halfway.

 

* * *

 

“So,” Jack says indistinctly. He swallows and tries again, which is...less than charming. “What are your words?”

“I’m sorry?” Rhys eyes the wine left in his glass and wonders if he can get away with ordering them another bottle. Then what Jack had said catches up to him.

Dinner is...not not going well. Jack had finally cleared Rhys’ security team on two conditions, the first of which was that they have dinner on Helios. Rhys had, reluctantly and against his better judgement, agreed. So now here they are, in what is no doubt the most expensive restaurant on the station, with a private table - but not _too_ private; Jack clearly is a believer in being seen -- and a panoramic view of the stars spread out before them.

The food is fantastic. The stars are beautiful, sparkling. The conversation is not, because Jack’s _other_ condition had been that they not talk business, and that has left them with...very little else.

Until Jack had said _that_.

“Your _words_ .” Jack says impatiently. “You know, the ones that everyone has? The ones that are linked to your -” he lifts his hands in exaggerated air quotes “- _soulmate_?”

Rhys lifts the wine bottle and looks pointedly at the waiter, who nods and hurries off. He’s going to need more wine for this.

“Don’t tell me you believe in all that,” Rhys says, stalling for time.

“Of course not,” Jack snorts. The waiter returns with a bottle and two fresh glasses. “What are the freaking odds? 400 quadzillion or however many people in the universe,” he says as the waiter uncorks and pours a sample. “And I’m supposed to believe that _one_ of them is going to cross my path at exactly the right time? Maybe - _maybe_ \- that worked centuries ago when we were all on one planet, when your odds were only one to eight million. But now?” Jack shakes his head. “An evolutionary fluke that’s outlived its usefulness.”

“Mmm. Does sound ridiculous, when you put it like that.” Rhys sips and nods approvingly, and the waiter pours two glasses before setting the bottle down and disappearing discreetly. Rhys picks up his glass and takes a healthy slug, setting the glass back down as the warmth of alcohol slips through his veins. “So why did you ask?”

Jack spears another piece of fish. “Just making conversation. What are they, though?”

“I thought you said you didn’t believe,” Rhys says, sliding a finger around the rim of his glass and watching Jack track it.

“I don’t.” Jack looks back up at him. “Maybe I just want to know how to positively ID your body.”

Rhys’ finger stops and Jack bursts out laughing.

“Oh man, you should see your face.” He wipes away an imaginary tear and Rhys rolls his eyes. “If I was going to kill you, Atlas, this -” he gestures at the the setting, the restaurant full of people, the attentive waiters “- is not the venue I would choose.”

“Reassuring,” Rhys says dryly, but his shoulders relax.

The conversation is easier from there, somehow; whether it’s the second bottle of wine opening things up or just the ice broken, it’s somehow...easier, to just sit back and enjoy what is admittedly a _very_ fine meal. Rhys makes a mental note to try to hire the chef away, both for the addition to his staff and the jab at Jack’s ego. He even lingers over coffee, when he had intended to not stay past dessert, letting Jack regale him with wild tales of the Invasion of Helios that are almost certainly at least sixty percent fabricated. Inter-corporate warfare might not be the most _proper_ of dinner conversations, but Jack tells a story well, even if he seems to star in an unlikely amount of heroics; his hands sketch out scenes in the air and his eyes light up as he describes one particularly memorable explosion.  Rhys leans on his elbows and sips his coffee, enjoying the warmth and the enthusiasm on display.

“Then the whole thing went up in freaking _flames_ ; nothing like a good old-fashioned gasoline fire, am I right?” Jack pauses. “I must be right, you’re smiling.”

“I’m not smiling,” Rhys says, although he is. He makes an effort to pull his mouth down, but the struggle just makes him laugh. “I’m not - I’m laughing _at_ you, not _with_ you, don’t get your hopes up,” he says, as Jack’s grin goes wider.

“I don’t know,” Jack says, folding his arms and leaning forward. “I’m doing pretty good so far. Got you up here, didn’t I?”

“You did.” Rhys sets his cup down. “And I should really be going.”

“You don’t have to,” Jack says quietly, and his low voice curls something traitorous in the pit of Rhys’ stomach.

It’s a terrible idea. This is _Handsome Jack_ , vicious and trigger-happy, the would-be conqueror of Pandora. Rhys has spent the last three years at Atlas steadily pushing back against Jack’s spreading empire; the absolute worst thing Rhys could do would be to fall into bed with him.

But for a long, dangerous moment, Rhys is tempted. The _Handsome_ moniker is not undeserved, and despite his casual disregard for human life there’s a _pull_ to Jack, a charisma that’s hard to deny. Rhys can see why people follow him; Rhys can feel it himself.

It’s that pull that ultimately decides him, that has him pushing back his chair and standing. “I should go. Thank you for dinner,” he says as Jack scrambles to his feet.

“Of course. Always next time, right?” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“There won’t be a next time,” Rhys says, but he’s smiling while he says it.

Jack winks. “That’s what you say now.”

 

* * *

 

The headlines aren’t as bad as he’d feared. _ROMANTIC RENDEZVOUS AT HYPERION HEADQUARTERS????_ is about as bad as it gets, and that’s - manageable. There are a few photos of the two of them at the restaurant, but they were taken at a discreet distance and they don’t capture much past the way Jack sits forward, hands frozen as he sketches something out, and Rhys toying with his wine glass. Rhys lingers over one of them with their heads bent together. He hadn’t realized he’d been leaning that close.

Jack sends him six separate dinner invitations over the next four weeks, each one more suggestive than the last. Rhys politely declines each one. The seventh merely asks if Rhys would like to join Jack to “get your meat dipped,” and Rhys deletes it without answering. The next day an obscenely large delivery of Eden valeblossoms arrives in the middle of the afternoon with a note that reads: “ _I meant fondue. Invitation’s open. ;) - HJ”_ Rhys sighs and dumps the flowers in the recycler. He’s about the toss the note after it when he stops, fingers tracing over the gaudy black and yellow card. Eventually he puts in in the top drawer of his desk, closing the drawer on it gently.

He doesn’t get much work done for the rest of the day.

By the time Legal has hammered out the final details and the official signing ceremony for the mining deal rolls around Rhys has an assortment of black and yellow cards in his desk and a growing reputation as a flower-hater. Rhys doesn’t bother to correct it. It’s not the flowers, it’s the sender; but _hate_ is...not exactly what he feels for Jack. It’s complicated.

It’s annoying; but Rhys is determined to see this deal go through and so when Jack offers Helios as a venue for the celebration Rhys vetoes it immediately but offers Opportunity as a compromise. It’s still Hyperion territory, but at least it’s not hanging in space; barring building a new venue, it’s as close to neutral as they’re going to get. Jack agrees, readily enough that Rhys almost feels guilty for the satellite recon he’s been gathering on the settlement. Almost; but not guilty enough to tell Security to stop running extraction drills.

Jack arranges for the signing ceremony to be held at a nightclub, because of course he does. He preens for the cameras - “be sure to get my good side; just kidding, every side’s my good side” - and signs his name with a flourish when Rhys hands him the stylus. He tucks it inside his jacket absently as the contract is notarized and recorded, and Rhys resigns himself to the loss of another one as they’re whisked apart for handshakes and photo opportunities and other necessary corporate gladhanding.

Later, after the champagne has been flowing freely and the afternoon has turned well into evening, Rhys finds himself leaning against the railing on an upper level overlooking the party below. He spares a wistful thought for the days he would have been down among them, but he has his position to consider now; and really, he thinks as he tosses back the last of his drink, the view’s much better from up here.

At least it is until he turns to his right and finds Jack leaning next to him, watching Rhys with a speculative expression. Rhys hadn’t heard him come up, although looking around it seems the entire balcony has cleared out. His security detail is standing a couple steps down; Jenner shrugs apologetically, half-turning away and Rhys sighs.

“Cheers,” Jack says, handing him a new drink and Rhys trades his empty glass for the full one. “To being good partners.” Jack winks and _clinks_ their glasses together, taking a healthy swig before turning and leaning back, propping his elbows against the railing. It puts the breadth of his shoulders on display, and Rhys takes a drink himself, hoping it’ll cover the way his eyes sweep Jack from head to toe.

“Did you like the flowers? There’s plenty more where those came from.” Jack appears completely relaxed, drink hanging precariously from loose fingers, but his eyes are sharp and keen.

“They went straight into the recycler,” Rhys says blandly, and Jack huffs.

“Shame. I made the florist on B-level filthy rich with those. Not as rich as me, of course,” he adds, straightening. “But still.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, though,” Jack says, stepping forward. Rhys refuses to back up - giving ground is showing weakness, and anyway Jack will just follow - and Jack steps right into his space, close enough that the scent of his aftershave curls in Rhys’ lungs. Jack grins like he knows the effect he has, and takes another drink before setting his glass aside.

“I didn’t ask what you _did_ with them,” Jack says, low and intimate. “I asked if you _liked_ them.”

Rhys narrows his eyes. “No.”

“Liar,” Jack says knowingly, and Rhys should - he should put his drink down and go. He should not do this.

“I see the way you look at me, Atlas,” Jack murmurs. “And believe me, I’m looking back, so what are we waiting for?”

“I’m not leaving with you,” Rhys says, and Jack smiles wide and victorious, bright in the dim light.

“You don’t have to, baby,” Jack says, reaching inside his jacket. Over his shoulder Rhys sees Jenner tense, coming up a step, but Rhys gives the _ok_ signal and she halts with one foot on the top stair.

“This’ll get you in to the executive suite upstairs,” Jack says, tucking a keycard in Rhys’ vest pocket, unaware or uncaring of how unhappy he’s making Rhys’ security. “I’ll see you later,” he says, stepping back and retrieving his glass.

“You won’t,” Rhys says, and Jack cocks an eyebrow.

“Wanna bet?” He raises his glass in a mock salute and turns on his heel, brushing past Jenner on his way down the stairs. Rhys watches him go, pulling the keycard from his pocket.

It’s still warm from Jack’s body. Rhys looks at it, held carefully between his fingers.

This is a bad idea. He shouldn’t do it. He won’t.

 

* * *

 

There’s a _click_ and a _beep_ as the lock disengages, and as the door slides open on quiet tracks Rhys tells himself this is - furthering corporate relations. It wouldn’t hurt anything to be on Handsome Jack’s good side. He’ll have to watch Atlas’ stock, make sure it doesn’t take a hit if Jack can’t keep his mouth shut - but who knows, maybe it’ll get a bump from investors hoping for a buyout.

As if Rhys would ever give up Atlas. There are things Rhys might be willing to negotiate on, but that’s not one.

He has to give one to Jack for dramatic effect, though, as he steps inside and the door _hisses_ shut behind him; the light have been turned down low, but the room glows with the light of Helios itself, hanging large and omnipresent over the lit-up city. Jack stands against the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a drink and staring up at the station itself. His back is turned, so Rhys can’t see his expression, but that’s just as well. It gives Rhys a chance to school his own.

“Atlas.” Rhys can hear the grin in Jack’s voice as he crosses the room, and sure enough when Jack turns his teeth shine in the blue-white glow.

“Shut up,” Rhys says, taking Jack’s drink from unresisting fingers. He downs the rest of it in one go, shuddering as the burn of something warm and spiced floods his veins. Jack watches him carefully but doesn’t protest, grin settling into something sharper as Rhys sets the glass aside. “And call me Rhys.”

Jack’s eyes sparkle. “Shut up or call you Rhys, which is it, kitten, you’re gonna have to be more _mmmph_ -“ Jack cuts off as Rhys grabs his collar and jerks him in, sealing their mouths together. Jack’s lips are firm and warm, and he catches on quickly, mouth moving against Rhys’ in a dirty slide that has Rhys pressing closer. Jack tries to take control almost immediately, hands sliding to Rhys’ hips and turning him so his back is pressed up against the cool glass of the window. Rhys retaliates by breaking the kiss and getting his hands underneath Jack’s jacket, shoving it down his arms until Jack has to let go. Jack growls and steps back just far enough to shake the jacket off, then presses back in, mouthing along Rhys’ neck and sliding a knee between Rhys’ legs.

“These windows had better be blacked out,” Rhys gasps as Jack bites underneath his ear.

Jack chuckles, and Rhys can feel it against his chest. “Why? You don’t want the good people of Opportunity to watch me fuck you right up against them? Best view in the city, right here,” he says, slapping Rhys’ ass. Rhys scowls and pushes him back, and Jack laughs. “I kid, I kid. They’re fully opaque from the outside,” he says, grinning, but his smile has an edge that Rhys just doesn’t trust.

“Bedroom,” Rhys says firmly, holding Jack at arm’s length when he tries to press back in.

“Pffft. _Fine_.” Jack rolls his eyes but his voice is laced with hunger and his grip is tight when his hand settles around Rhys’ wrist. Rhys flexes his hand in Jack’s grip just to feel it tighten, and Rhys grins as he’s pulled along in Jack’s wake.

The bedroom features the same floor-to-ceiling windows as the living area, but the bed is set far enough back that it’s probably safe. In any case, Rhys is tired of worrying, tired of everything except Jack’s hands pulling him around and backing him up those few steps back to the bed, and Jack’s mouth on his, hot and demanding. Jack kisses like he talks, all greed and bold self-assurance, and the backs of Rhys’ thighs hit the mattress just as his knees go weak.

Jack’s more than happy to help his strip off his clothing, vest, shirt, and all the rest tossed carelessly to the side. His eyes gleam appreciatively, eyes skating over Rhys’ bared chest, and as Jack runs curious fingers down Rhys’ right arm Rhys shivers, fingers flexing. His hands go to the buttons of Jack’s vest to return the favor, and soon Jack is shaking off the last of his clothing, stepping back in with a grin. He wraps large hands around Rhys’ waist, and Rhys finds himself tossed unceremoniously further up the bed.

He barely has time to right himself before Jack is on him again, lips hot on Rhy’s and body pressing him into the mattress. Jack’s skin is warm, almost hot to the touch, and Rhys soaks it up greedily, wrapping his arms around Jack’s shoulders as he tilts his head and nips at Jack’s mouth. The mask is strangely smooth against his skin, but it appears to translate sensation just fine because Jack’s hips jerk, and the first brush of Jack’s cock against his has Rhys moaning into Jack’s mouth.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Jack breathes, pulling back and brushing a thumb over Rhys’ mouth. Rhys catches it with his teeth and bites down, and Jack sucks in a breath. “This is going to be _good_.”

Rhys hums in agreement, and when Jack slides two fingers into his mouth Rhys sucks at them greedily, hollowing out his cheeks and shivering at the calluses against his tongue. Jack swears softly, staring transfixed as he gently fucks Rhys’ mouth with his fingers. Rhys rocks his hips up, sliding a hand down to grab at Jack’s ass so he can press their hips together. Rhys’ eyelids flutter as Jack’s cock presses hot and thick against the crease of his thigh, and he moans around Jack’s fingers.

Jack swears again, pulling his fingers out shifting so he can slide them down between Rhys’ cheeks, glancing up like he expects an argument. Under other circumstances Rhys would be happy to give him one; under these, Rhys bites his tongue on another moan and spreads his legs wider.

“You’d better - _hng,”_ Rhys says as Jack’s fingers graze his hole. “You’d better have lube in here,” he gasps as Jack presses gently.

Jack grins, shifting up to bite at Rhys’ jaw. “What do you think I am, some kind of heathen? Don’t answer that,” he adds, leaning over to the nightstand and rummaging through it. He returns triumphant with a discreet little bottle, and when one slicked up finger presses against him Rhys doesn’t try to hold back the moan. Jack seems set on wringing every noise he possibly can out of Rhys with his fingers; he stretches Rhys carefully with one finger, then with two, and by the time he adds a third Rhys is writhing underneath him, ready to bite him or _beg_ if that’s what it takes.

“C’mon,” he gasps out impatiently, tossing his head back. “Come on, come _on_ , Jack, just -” His breath catches as Jack twists his fingers, hands clenching in the bedding.

“Just what?” Jack sounds unhurried, like he could do this all night, and Rhys glares. Jack grins. “Just what, sweetheart?”

“Just.” Rhys grits his teeth until Jack twists his fingers again. “Just _fuck me_ already, or I swear to god I’ll get up and leave right now.”

“You wouldn’t.” But Jack pulls his fingers out, reaching over for a condom, and Rhys rolls over, peering over his shoulder as Jack rolls it on. He positions the head of his dick, and Rhys turns away and buries his face in his arm as Jack pushes in.

Rhys’ mouth falls open at the stretch, but his own moan is lost under Jack’s groan. Rhys’s breath comes in short little pants as Jack presses in and pulls back and presses in again, working Rhys open inch by inch until his hips are flush against Rhys’ ass. Then, just as Rhys is adjusting to  he _stops_ , fingers tight on Rhys’ hips, and Rhys peers impatiently over his shoulder.

“Relax,” Jack says breathlessly. He rolls his hips and Rhys gasps at the insistent press of his cock, brushing against Rhys’ prostate and sending sparks up his spine. “I’ve waited a long time for this. I want to _enjoy_ it.”

Whatever protest Rhys might have had is lost against the fresh wave of heat up his spine as Jack thrusts again, the pooling warmth in his belly that curls his toes as Jack picks up the pace. Each thrust seems to drive Jack in deeper, until the slap of skin on skin fills the room; Rhys turns his face into the pillow and lets it muffle the noises Jack is tearing from his lungs.

Rhys’ cock twitches against his belly, trapped against the bed, and Rhys shifts to try to get a hand underneath himself, but Jack grabs his hips and hauls him up on his knees. The improved angle rubs Jack’s cock over Rhys’ prostate with every thrust, and when Jack gets a hand on Rhys’ cock Rhys whimpers into the pillow.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Jack pants behind him. He rubs his thumb over the head of Rhys’ cock and Rhys’ entire body trembles. “Come on, baby, just for me.”

Jack leans forward and presses his lips to Rhys’ shoulder, a hot brand against Rhys’ already overheated skin. Then he digs his teeth in, and the sharp shock of pain lances through Rhys’ body, pulling it taut with pleasure as he comes apart under Jack’s hands and cock and mouth.

Jack groans as Rhys shakes in his arms, pushing him flat again and fucking him roughly through his orgasm. Rhys’ toes curl as Jack’s hips stutter and grow still, Jack’s hips grinding against Rhys’ ass. Rhys blinks hazily as the world slowly comes back into focus and his breathing slows, peripherally aware of Jack unpeeling his fingers from Rhys’ hips and collapsing to the side.

Rhys is lying boneless, drifting in and out of a doze and enjoying the feeling of sweat drying on his cooling skin, when Jack has to go and absolutely _ruin_ it.

“I don’t see your words,” he says, skimming his fingers down Rhys’ spine. Rhys arches into it even as he frowns.

“Why do you keep asking about that?” He grumbles, but it comes out more lazy and contented than annoyed.

“You keep not answering, and it’s got me curious. Is it embarrassing? I bet it’s embarrassing and that’s why you won’t tell me.” Jack grins. “It is “Hey dickhead,” because gotta tell ya, I’ve been tempted myself a few times -”

“Oh my god, _fine_.” Rhys huffs and levers himself up on his elbows. “It was ‘Hi,’ just like millions of other people across the universe.”

Jack snaps his fingers and points. “See? That’s another problem - how are you supposed to know if it’s the _right_ ‘hi’ when - _if_  you bump into them?”

Rhys rolls his eyes. “I’m really not worried about it.”

“Smart. I like that about you.” Jack leans in and presses his lips to Rhys’, and Rhys hums and leans into it. Then Jack pulls back, frowning. “Wait - you said _was_. I thought it wasn’t possible to get them removed.”

“Not like a tattoo, no.” Rhys raises his right hand and wiggles his fingers. “But when the whole arm needs to come off…”

Jack raises his eyebrows. “Ballsy. That’s real important to some people, you know.”

Rhys rubs a hand over his eyes, peeking out from beneath his fingers. “You’re very hung up on this for someone who claims not to care about this kind of thing.”

“What, the pillow-talk not doing it for you?” Jack slides his hand down Rhys’ back and cups his ass, tracing a finger around Rhys’ rim. Rhys sucks in a breath as Jack slips a finger in, sliding in with no resistance. Jack leans over to bite at Rhys’ ear, gently at first, then with a sharp nip that tears an involuntary little sound from Rhys’ chest.

“I’m open to suggestion,” Jack says, low and inviting, and in answer Rhys turns for a biting kiss. Jack appears to be willing to be distracted - in this, at least, if nowhere else.


	2. to outstrip the day

Rhys wakes up to the morning sun in his eyes at the wrong angle, and a steaming mug of coffee hovering tantalizingly by the side of the bed. Rhys makes an instinctive grab for it, but the mug withdraws, and Rhys follows the line of hand and arm blearily up to Jack’s face, grin spread wide as he pulls the mug back out of Rhys’ reach.

“Nu-uh,” he says. “You have to at least sit up before you can have this.”

“Monster,” Rhys grumbles, but he pushes himself up and turns, leaning back against the headboard and holding out his hand expectantly. Jack hands it over, and Rhys brings the mug close and takes a sip. It’s _good_ , smooth and rich without the acidic burn of an inferior brew; Rhys takes a second sip and his eyes fall closed in bliss, a little _mmmm_ escaping unbidden.

“Damn,” Jack says, and Rhys opens his eyes again to find Jack watching him, amused. “If I’d known coffee was the way to your heart I’d have tried that instead of flowers.”

“It wouldn’t have served you any better,” Rhys says, stealing another sip, and Jack shrugs, unbothered.

“You say that, but you can’t see what your face is doing right now.” Jack winks and retrieves a second mug from the nightstand. A soft pair of pants are slung low around his hips, but his chest is bare, and he turns away, padding on bare feet over toward the window. The muscles of his back shift as Jack brings his mug up for a drink, and as he contemplates Helios shining in the morning sunlight Rhys sips his own coffee and considers the word writ dark across Jack’s back.

It’s no secret, what Handsome Jack’s word is. He’s wielded it like a PR weapon, hiring the best photographer in the nearest five systems to take the now iconic shot of Jack overlooking one of the production labs, hands braced on the railing and _Hyperion_ flowing bold and clear across his shoulder blades. Rhys had stared at that photo for a long, long time when the press release had crossed his desk.

By then, of course, it had been too late.

Jack turns and catches him staring, and before he can really think about it Rhys asks, “do you believe in destiny?”

Jack blinks, then seems to catch on. “You mean this?” He jerks a thumb at his back. “Thought we already covered that.”

“You asked me about mine; we haven’t talked about yours.”

Jack shrugs. “What’s to talk about?” He swirls his coffee for a minute. “If I do believe in anything, it’s this: that this word across my back says more about me than any supposed perfect partner. If I was meant for anything I was meant for this -” he gestures behind him at Opportunity “- to lift up this company and be lifted up by it. My perfect partner isn’t a person.” Jack grins, backlit by the sun and his station. “It’s a company.”

A few seconds of silence follow, then Rhys hums. “That’s a very pretty speech. I’ve heard you give it at least three times on the ECHO-cast.”

Jack laughs. “And you remembered it - I’m flattered.”

Rhys rolls his eyes. “Don’t be.”

“Too late.” Jack strolls back over, setting on the bed and resting a hand on the coverlet over Rhys’ knee, thumb rubbing absently back and forth. “You got something on your mind?”

“No,” Rhys says.

“Liar.” Jack leans in and presses a kiss to Rhys’ cheek. “You up for dinner next Friday?”

“I - what? No,” Rhys says, leaning back. “No, we are not doing this again.”

“Now you’re just being stubborn.” Jack sets his coffee aside and crawls forward, bracketing Rhys in with his arms and legs. “Come on,” he says, nuzzling at the side of Rhys’ jaw, and Rhys tilts his head back to give him better access. “You like me - and what’s not to like, am I right - I like you, what’s a multi-billion dollar corporation or two between friends with benefits?”

“You make the worst arguments,” Rhys grumbles, but as Jack sets his teeth lightly against his skin Rhys can feel his resolve slipping.

“That’s a yes, then?” Jack says. Rhys sighs, feeling Jack’s grin against his throat, sharp and wide in victory.

 

* * *

 

When Rhys gets back to Atlas, the first thing he does is check the morning headlines. Nothing from either the Atlas or Hyperion outlets about any sort of midnight meeting, just the pre-approved headers and official photos. Rhys drums his fingers on the counter before snapping his palm display closed and heading off to the shower.

An hour later, the headlines aren’t as kind.

“ _ATLAS CEO SEEN LEAVING HYPERION HIDEAWAY,”_ one reads. Rhys sighs and swipes on to the next one. “ _LATE NIGHT BUSINESS TALKS OR TRYST?”_ is hardly any better. “ _ATLAS SUCKS; BUT DOES HE SWALLOW?_ ” is a Hyperion tabloid, of course, but even so Rhys winces. He saves the rest to his personal drive for later perusal and sets up an alert for Atlas stock, waiting for the hit.

It doesn’t come. If anything, it rises, as does Hyperion’s; not as much as Atlas’, but clearly investors expect good things out of this relationship. Rhys wishes he could say the same.

Over the next several days he deletes seven messages from Jack and trashes two flower deliveries. On Tuesday he receives a special delivery of Demophon coffee, dark roast. That, he keeps. On Wednesday he opens his desk drawer and stares at the collection of black and yellow cards. On Thursday he transmits a landing code, and when Friday comes he closes down his terminal two hours earlier than usual, breezes past his surprised admin as she’s gathering her things to go, and heads to the landing pad on the roof.

A Hyperion flightcraft is just touching down. Rhys hopes it’s not packed with explosives.

He kind of thinks they might be past that, though, as the door hisses open and Jack bounds out. Jack stuffs his hands in his pockets and saunters over.

“Thought you got cold feet,” he says by way of greeting, coming to a stop just a little too close.

“Hm,” is all Rhys says in response. He grabs Jack’s lapel and jerks him closer still, and the press of Jack’s lips on his is everything he remembers, hot and insistent and _perfect_. Rhys hums and sways in, letting Jack settle large hands on his hips, holding him still.

Jack blinks when Rhys pulls away. “Well hello to you, too,” he says, voice low and warm.

“Hi,” Rhys says, stepping back with an effort. “Dinner’s waiting downstairs. Shall we?”

Dinner is a success, in Rhys’ opinion. Jack frowns faintly at the salad course and squints at the entree, but it’s not until the delicately sculpted dessert is placed in front of him that Jack realizes.

“You -” Jack sputters, stabbing his fork in the air as if it will make his point for him.

“Hired your best chef away from you, yes,” Rhys says, carving a corner off with his spoon and taking a bite. It’s really quite excellent.

“Thief,” Jack accuses, but his eyes are watching Rhys’ lips and Rhys smiles.

“Entrepreneur,” he suggests, setting his spoon down.

“Liar.” Jack grins, eyes sparkling, and Rhys doesn’t correct him.

They barely make it to Rhys’ apartments, after, Jack’s hand a burning weight on the small of Rhys’ back. Rhys comes pressed up against the entryway, Jack’s hand in his pants and Jack’s voice a filthy promise in his ear, and again a second time astride Jack’s hips, riding Jack’s dick and stroking himself to the look on Jack’s face.

“Look at you,” Jack rasps, voice hoarse and _hungry_ as he slides his hands up Rhys’ thighs. “Gorgeous, baby, c’mere.” He pushes Rhys’ hand away and takes Rhys’ cock in hand, thumb stroking firmly up the underside; Rhys throws his head back on a gasp, toes curling as his body wrings tight a second time, closing his eyes as heat washes through him.

Jack seizes his hips and rolls them over, pushing Rhys’ thighs up as he pursues his own release, and as Jack thrusts once, twice, and a third long push that has him grinding his hips into Rhys’ ass, Rhys wonders hazily what the tabloids will make of this one.

 

* * *

 

The headlines the next day are predictably awful, but Atlas’ bottom line doesn’t change - and that’s what counts, Rhys tells himself. This thing with Jack is - fine. It has to be.

And as the days roll into weeks into months, it does become fine. The media loses interest, on to the next scandal and the next, but Jack - doesn’t, and before he knows it Rhys has a permanent clearance to Helios station and his own landing pad in private shuttle bay D.

Two months into - into whatever this is, Rhys breezes through station security and takes the executive elevator up to the CEO’s office only to find Jack - to find _a_ Jack ensconced in that throne-like chair, absorbed in his tablet.

Hm. Rhys hasn’t met any of the body doubles yet, although he’s seen them at a distance.

“I’m glad I caught you still in the office,” he calls out, enjoying the way the body double jumps, fumbling the tablet before he catches it and looks up guiltily. He wears Jack’s face, that’s for certain, but he doesn’t suck up all the air in the room the way Jack does; even when he’s slumped down in a chair, bored out of his mind, Jack seems to take up more space than he should reasonably be able to. Then the body double sits up, swinging his feet off the desk, and as his boots _thump_ to the floor the set of his shoulders _changes_ and it’s - it’s _almost_ Jack in that chair.

“What can I do you for, Atlas?” He drawls, leaning his chin on one hand. His eyes rake Rhys up and down, and it’s a very good imitation but Rhys knows the difference; knows it waking or sleeping, across an ECHO-cast or smiling wide and toothy from across Jack’s own desk.

“I just need your signature,” Rhys says, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out his own ECHO-mini. He calls up a file and slides it across the desk. “You know, for the Badlands expansion. Forgot to get it last time.”

The body double’s smile doesn’t budge, but his eyes tighten.

“What, right to business? Just like that?” His voice drops into a silky glide as he gets up, moving around to lean one hip on the side of the desk. He folds his arms and leans forward. “Don’t I at least get a kiss hello?”

Rhys feels his mouth quirk up despite himself. “You really willing to get airlocked for it?”

The body double’s smile gets infinitesimally wider. “You think it’d be worth it?” Then he leans back, laughing, and the Jack posture melts away. “What gave it away?”

Rhys recaptures his Echo-mini, sliding it back inside his vest. “The shoulders,” he says, and the body double’s eyebrows shoot up.

“The shoulders,” he repeats, and shakes his head. “Well, you’re the first person to see through it just from _the shoulders_.” He sticks out his hand. “I’m Timothy. Nice to meet you.”

“Atlas,” Rhys says, taking the offered handshake. “But you knew that.”

“I did.” Timothy pushes off from the desk and moves toward the wet bar. “Jack should be here any minute. He got held up in decontamination; something about a demo malfunction, I don’t know the details.”

“Would you tell me if you did?” Rhys asks, and Timothy grins at him over his shoulder.

“No,” he says as he pours three short glasses of whiskey. He returns to the desk holding two and hands Rhys one, _clinking_ their glasses together. “Cheers,” he says before taking a sip, and Rhys follows suit. The warmth blooms in his stomach immediately, smooth and subtle; Jack always keeps the good stuff in his office. Rhys sometimes wonders if Jack _knows_ how good it is, or if it’s like the gold-plated statues of himself; ostentation on top of extravagance, showing off for the sake of showing off. Doesn’t matter, really; Rhys benefits either way.

As if thinking about him has summoned him, the doors slide open on Jack himself. He’s adjusting his jacket, patting an inside pocket absently as he stalks in; as he catches sight of Rhys and Timothy something Rhys can’t quite identify flickers across his face before it slides into something more relaxed.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” he says, bounding up the stairs. He slides an arm around Rhys’ waist and presses a kiss to his cheek; Rhys allows it, eyeing Timothy, but the body double doesn’t seem fazed, just hands his glass to Jack without missing a beat.

“It’s not even my birthday,” Jack says, accepting the drink. His hand rests low on Rhys’ side, thumb rubbing back and forth absently. “You know,” he says as Timothy fetches the third glass and returns. “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this _exact_ setup in _Backdoor Bosses III -_ ”

“No.” Tim and Rhys’ voices ring out nearly in unison, and Jack laughs.

“Aw c’mon,” he says, pulling Rhys close. “If you think one of me is good, just imagine _two_. Whaddya say,” Jack murmurs into Rhys’ ear. “Me and me and you?”

Rhys glances at Timothy, who gives him no clues, watching them both with a pleasant, neutral expression.

“He’s cute,” Rhys says, turning to press a kiss to Jack’s temple, right where the mask meets skin. “But he’s not you.”

Jack huffs a pleased sound, and his arm tightens around Rhys for a moment before letting go. “If you say so. Invitation’s open,” he says with a wink, and although his tone is light and teasing his shoulders relax, the tension there only now noticeable by its absence.

“You’re missing out, though,” he continues, turning to Timothy, and now he _is_ teasing, arms loose and relaxed and laughter threaded through his voice. “You should see the way this guy -”

“Don’t,” Timothy says, rolling his eyes, but he’s hiding a smile behind his drink. “Just don’t, or I’ll sign off on the Badlands expansion on your behalf.”

Jack’s brows pull down. “That was vetoed last week, what are you -” He stops and glances sidelong at Rhys.

Rhys shrugs. “ _Hyperion_ decided not to move forward with the expansion. Atlas is is still interested in exploring the opportunity. If you’re going to leave someone who looks like you all alone in your office...” Rhys smile grows as Tim hides a grin in his drink. “Atlas takes its opportunities where it finds them.”

Jack eyes shine. “Underhanded.” He catches at Rhys’ hand, thumb rubbing over the knuckles. “I like it.” Rhys doesn’t miss the way Tim glances at their hands, and when he looks up he meets Rhys’ eyes and holds them.

Rhys looks away first.

“Well, if you’re going to _reject_ poor Timothy like that, I suppose you’ll have to settle for little ol’ me.” Jack tosses back the rest of his drink and sets the glass aside, tugging on Rhys’ hand as he starts down the stairs. “Don’t wait up, Tim. In fact - don’t wait at all.”

“Who’s waiting?” Timothy calls after them as Rhys follows Jack down the stairs. Rhys glances back, but Timothy’s just watching them, the purple-blue glow of Elpis casting Jack’s features in thoughtful shadow.

 

* * *

 

It’s an otherwise unremarkable evening, late into the Pandoran night-cycle when Rhys asks, stretched out lazily in his own bed, sore and satisfied but strangely restless. Jack has maybe-almost fallen asleep halfway on top of him, and as Rhys shifts to make them more comfortable it just sort of slips out.

“What would you do?” He says it mostly to himself, but Jack makes a hazy interrogative noise, lifting his head half an inch so Rhys says the rest of it. “If you found your soulmate. Or if they found you.”

Jack laughs and thumps his head back down on Rhys’ chest. “I dunno, probably dump the body somewhere scenic. What kind of question is that?”

Rhys slaps his arm. “What kind of _answer_ is that, come on.”

“You come on.” Rhys goes to push him off but Jack’s suddenly a lot more awake than he seemed a few seconds ago, and he easily pins Rhys’ wrists back against the pillows.

Rhys glares. “It was a serious question.”

“It was a serious answer.” Jack grins, leaning down to press his lips against Rhys’ in a slow, dirty slide. Rhys shivers, pressing back against Jack’s mouth and his hands and when Jack pulls back his smile is wide and satisfied.

“I don’t have time for that kind of bullshit, babe,” he says, and Rhys blinks for a second before he tracks the conversation. “I’m not about to let some _nobody_ tie a rope around my neck just because they think we’ve got something in common.”

“Yeah, but -” Rhys glances to the side, not sure how to finish that sentence.

“Babe. Sweetheart. _Rhys_ .”  Jack takes Rhys’ chin and brings his head back until he has to look at Jack again. “I don’t want a soulmate. I want someone like you - someone where I know that _this_ -” he lets go of Rys’ chin and gestures vaguely “- is _real_ and not some neurochemical _bullshit_.”

“Real,” Rhys says cautiously.

“Yeah.” Jack props himself up on his elbows. “Say it’s all true. Say somehow, through some freaking _amazing_ stroke of luck you find a match. Then what? Instant bliss?” Jack bares his teeth. “I don’t trust that. If I’m gonna be with someone it’s because _I_ choose to be with them, not because it’s chosen for me. That’s what I like about you,” Jack says, and Rhys stills. “You don’t put up with that nonsense. And look at us.” Jack leans down and nips at Rhys’ mouth. “We’re doing pretty well, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Rhys says after a long moment. “Yeah, we are.”

“Damn right we are. In fact,” Jack rolls on his back, stretching. “You’ve got me thinking about the m-word. Not now,” he laughs as Rhys starts. “But you know. Down the road.”

“What m-word?” Rhys asks cautiously. There are a lot of options there.

“Duh - merger. Think what we could accomplish together.” Jack stretches his arm out, sketching the letters in the air. _Hyperion-Atlas_. We could crush the competition, babe.”

Rhys opens his mouth but nothing comes out and he shuts it again. He sits up, as if being vertical will make Jack’s words make more sense. He looks back at Jack, who’s watching him with amusement writ large across his face. “You don’t mean that,” he says finally, and Jack laughs.

“Like I said. Not now.” Jack reaches up and pulls him down. “But it’s something to think about, yeah?”

“Sure,” Rhys says faintly just before Jack’s lips are on his, and then there are other things to think about.

 

* * *

 

It’s not a good idea; the logistics would be a nightmare, not to mention the corporate culture clash -

It’s seductive, though. To have a part of Jack, to _be_ a part of his life more than the occasional night or long weekend.

Rhys shakes his head. He can’t - he can’t think about that right now. Maybe not ever.

But definitely not right now. Just because he and Jack are - are _fucking_ , that doesn’t mean mean Jack won’t try to fuck him _over_ on this mining venture even after the digital ink is dry. Hyperion didn’t get to where it is by toeing the line.

Fortunately, neither did Atlas.

Hence the inspection on Helios; Hyperion scientists think they can cut the lengthy time for the refining process in half, but Rhys wants to see the procedure in person before he okays it in his facilities.

The tour is long and repetitive; much to Jack’s annoyance, Rhys insists on a full explanation at each stage of the process, even if he only understands half of it. That’s what ECHO-recordings are for, and Rhys wants to make sure he asks all the right questions for his people to make a full evaluation once he gets back to Pandora.

“How long does the distillation take?” Rhys asks, peering at a containment tube. The blue glow of his eye reflects faintly off the inside of his safety glasses; irritating, but a necessary precaution.

“Six to eight hours, depending on the quality of the ore,” the lead technician replies - Rojer, by the nametag. “No more than nine.”

“What happens at nine hours?” Rhys asks, straightening and turning. Jack is standing by with his arms folded, looking impatient with this whole process. Tough - he’s had briefings on every stage of development. This is Rhys’ only chance to evaluate before it goes into production.

“Uh.” The technician looks at Jack, who huffs and waves a hand in a _go ahead_ gesture. “Explosions, mostly.”

“I see,” Rhys says, glancing sidelong at Jack.

“So just don’t go over nine hours, am I right?” Jack unfolds his arms and claps a hand heavily down on the technician’s shoulder. Rojer winces, then covers it up hastily with a pasted-on smile. Jack grins in response. “I’m telling you, it’s perfectly safe. Our extraction rate has always been governed by the refining process; with this, we can practically double our production. And double of fifteen percent sounds pretty great, doesn’t it?”

“Seventeen,” Rhys corrects absently, stepping back to view the refining lab as a whole. “Seventeen percent.”

“Of course, of course.” Jack doesn’t look at all perturbed at having been caught out. “So you’ll sign off on the installation, right?”

“Hm.” Rhys folds his hands behind his back. He turns back to Rojer. “How many days has it been since the last -”

There’s a deep _boom_ from the station one row over, and Rhys looks over in just in time to see the swirling purple clouds condense into one solid point before exploding outward with concussive force. The containment tube creaks, and Rhys barely has time to get an arm up to shield his face before it shatters, sending fragments of safety glass spinning out into the room. A stinging rain of tiny shards hits him, peppering his clothing and scoring across his exposed skin. He hears Jack grunt beside him, and Rhys cautiously lowers his arm to see Jack stumbling back, bleeding from a jagged slash across the temple.

The room is filled with shouts and screams and the blare of klaxons, but threading through it is an ominous groaning, and Rhys looks back at the remains of the containment tube just as the suspension apparatus gives way, swinging a heavy beam down from the ceiling.

Rhys vaguely hears Jack shout behind him, but there’s no time to duck, no time to turn away, and Rhys’ last thought before the beam hits him is that this is going to hurt like a bitch.

 

* * *

 

When Rhys wakes up he almost wishes he hadn’t - his head pounds in time with his pulse, despite the faint floaty feeling that tells him he’s been given the good drugs. It seems to be wearing off, though, and he gropes on the side of the standard-issue medbay bed for the call button.

“Looking for this?” Jack’s voice comes from somewhere to Rhys’ left, and Rhys raises his head blearily. Jack waves the call button from the chair he’s pulled up next to Rhys’ bed.

Rhys frowns, and then groans as that sends a fresh wave of pain through his temples. “What -”

“Yeah, so - it looks like even eight hours might be too long for distillation. Whoops.” Jack’s voice is flat and - almost _angry_ , and the beginnings of unease start to curl in Rhys’ stomach.

“I’m not signing off on that,” Rhys mumbles, and Jack barks out a short laugh.

“No. No, of course you’re not.” He sounds bitter, and Rhys blinks gritty eyes, trying to keep up.

“Look, _I’m_ the one in the hospital bed, I don’t know what you’re -” Rhys coughs, trying to clear his throat. “Are you pissed because this sets the production schedule back? Is that what this is about?” It seems disproportionate, but Jack takes things personally sometimes -

“No.” Jack doesn’t laugh, and Rhys blinks slowly, disquiet creeping up his spine. “No, this is about why you’ve been fucking lying to me from the very beginning.”

Rhys’ entire body goes cold and the fog in his brain clears abruptly.

“See, I bought that line about ‘hi.’ Hook, line, and sinker, like a goddamn rube fresh off the Edens.” Jack touches one of the screens on the display arm branching off the bed and turns it so Rhys can see.

It’s Rhys’ medical record, which is - _theoretically_ private. Birthplace, vaccinations, major surgeries - it’s all there, including the one word he was born with, the one he had cut off his body so no one could use it against him.

 _Atlas_.

 _Hyperion_.

The exchange echoes in his ears, and as he meets Jack’s eyes he wonders if Jack hears it too.

Jack is silent, waiting - for an explanation or an apology, Rhys doesn’t know. As he glances between the _Atlas_ on the screen and Jack’s closed-off face, Rhys wonders what kind of explanation could undo the tightness around Jack’s eyes.

Maybe there isn’t one.

“I was going to tell you,” Rhys offers at last. It doesn’t sound like enough, even to himself.

“Yeah?” Jack’s voice is hard. “When? Before or after I offered you half of my company?”

Rhys remains silent, because there’s no good answer to that.

Jack snorts, standing and tossing the call button back on the bed. “Save it. This is your one and only pass from me, Atlas.” Rhys winces despite himself, but if Jack notices he doesn’t show it. Jack turns for the door but doesn’t make it more than a few steps, pausing and turning back like he can’t help himself. “You know what the worst part is?” He wraps his hands around the foot of the bed, and Rhys is vividly reminded of the rumors surrounding Jack’s ascension to CEO.

“The worst part.” Jack doesn’t wait for answer, just shakes his head and laughs, sharp and bitter. He leans forward, knuckles whitening around the footboard. “The absolute fucking _worst_ part is that you know I don’t believe in this bullshit - but now I can’t be sure, can I? Here I thought we had beaten the odds, but _this_ \- “ he gestures between them and Rhys feels sick “- this is just some biological _bullshit_.”

Jack pauses, like he’s waiting for Rhys to refute it, but Rhys’ head is pounding and his throat is closing up and he can’t _think_ , he doesn’t know what Jack wants him to _say_ -

Jack huffs and shakes his head again. “Figures,” he says, hands sliding off the bedrail. He flexes his hands and turns for the door, and this time he doesn’t stop.

“I want you off my station, Atlas,” he says as the door slides open. “When the doc says you’re ready to go there’s a shuttle waiting for you. Be on it.” The _or else_ is clearly implied.

The door slides shut behind him, quiet on pneumatic tracks, and Rhys slumps back on the bed, exhausted.

He didn’t - he hadn’t known Jack would take it that badly. He had _suspected,_ of course, which is why Rhys had kept it a secret in the first place.

_Atlas._

_Hyperion_.

_Liar._

Jack wasn’t supposed to - if he hadn’t - if he had just _kept his stupid prying eyes to himself_ \- but even as Rhys thinks it the first rush of frustration drains away, leaving behind a cold, sick emptiness.

It wasn’t supposed to end this way. But then, Rhys thinks, gazing at the sterile medbay ceiling - maybe it had never been meant to start at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at [ThirtySixSaveFiles](http://thirtysixsavefiles.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!


	3. each in its orbit

Rhys goes back to Pandora. There’s work to do; there’s always work to do. Atlas’ stock won’t maintain itself, more’s the pity. He tells all of the facilities to be on high alert, doubling the watch on the radar sensors. He doesn’t tell them why; he lets his return from Helios and the rumor mill do the rest.

_ Did you see that black eye? Negotiations must have gone south. _

_ It’s just common sense. Hyperion can’t be trusted. _

_ He stole something from Hyperion. That’s why he’s holed up in his office all the time these days. _

They’re all true, in their own way, but that last one feels truer than Rhys would like; he feels like he  _ has _ stolen something from Jack, although he can’t think of what. Jack’s peace of mind? The comforting belief that he was the center of the universe? That nothing as messy as  _ human emotion _ could ever touch him?

Fuck that, and fuck  _ him _ . Rhys had  _ tried _ to keep the peace, the best way he knew how. Jack would have laughed in his face if he had told him up front. Or had him killed.

No one’s laughing now. And the radar remains quiet.

Rhys starts stripping off the jacket, the vest, the accoutrements of the  _ Atlas CEO _ almost before the door to his apartments  _ swishes _ shut behind him. It’s been five days; five days filled with meetings and departmental reports and catching up on everything he missed while he was stuck in Helios’ medical ward.

It’s not quite enough to drown out Jack’s voice in the back of his head -  _ liar _ \- but. It’s something.

Rhys grabs his right shoulder and  _ twists _ , unlocking his arm as he heads for the shower. The heat and the stinging pressure against his back help, a little, and he closes his eyes and tips his head back into the spray. When he comes out, warm and clean and wrapped in a Edenic silk robe, the arm sitting in its charging cradle catches his eye and he pauses in the middle of drying his hair one-handed.

He steps forward, letting the towel fall to the ground, and runs his fingers over the letters engraved in the forearm.  _ ATLAS.  _ His first few prosthetics hadn’t featured it; they had been blockier, more utilitarian. He hadn’t ordered the engraving until he’d made CEO. Everyone had assumed it was a branding decision, and in a way it was. Never hurts to remind customers where the tech comes from.

The blocky Atlas font doesn’t flow nearly as smoothly as the original script had, but the placement is the same, boldly stamped over the forearm. Sometimes he thinks he can still feel it.

The word is a reminder, of how far he’s come and how much he has to lose. Jack would understand, Rhys thinks - if he could look past his own nose for  _ two seconds _ , that is. Rhys’ destiny is what he makes it.

And he can make it without Jack, even if it feels like he left a piece of himself on Helios. Rhys has learned to work around missing pieces before. He’ll learn again.

 

* * *

 

Rhys is elbow deep in product specifications the third week after leaving Helios when Jack strolls into his office; only it’s not Jack, it’s Timothy, and Rhys realizes belatedly that he’d never revoked Jack’s security permissions. He honestly hadn’t thought it would matter.

Timothy smiles wide at the administrative assistant showing him in, and Rhys makes a mental note to be extra polite on the way out. Rhys can’t really fault her for mistaking a body double for the real thing - and Rhys is trying very hard not to think about how the differences are immediately obvious to him - but he  _ wants  _ to, and bit of frosty civility is the most he can allow himself.

“Have a seat,” Rhys says dryly as Tim drops into one of the chairs opposite his desk. He shuts down his monitor and folds his arms before him on the desk, making sure the office door is shut before he says, “What can I do for you, Timothy?”

It’s amazing to watch, really: between one breath and the next he goes from Timothy-pretending-to-be-Jack to just Timothy, just as tall but somehow taking up less space in the world. Rhys props his chin on a hand, watching familiar features fall into an expression of concern foreign to Jack’s face.

“How are you doing?” Timothy asks, which is - not at all what Rhys expected out of this.

Rhys frowns. “I’m fine. I’m great.”  _ Liar _ . Jack’s voice echoes in his head and Rhys clenches his teeth. “I’m just  _ peachy _ , what is this  _ about _ , Timothy?”

Timothy raises his hands, shaking his head in surrender. “Relax, I’m not here to - Jack doesn’t know I’m here,” he clarifies, which clears up nothing at all.

“Doesn’t he?” Rhys reaches out, picks up his water glass, puts it down again. He runs his finger around the rim, but forces himself to stop when he sees Timothy watching.

“He doesn’t.” Timothy sounds very sure. “I need - can I see your hand? This will only take a second,” he says, standing and extending one hand out expectantly while the other fishes in a pocket.

Rhys frowns but reaches out, putting his hand in Timothy’s. It feels just like Jack’s, and Rhys has to hold himself still. Timothy turns his hand over, so Rhys’ palm is facing upward, and the next few moments happen very fast.

Timothy’s hand comes out of his pocket holding a white medicinal patch. Rhys’ eyes widen and he tries to jerk away but Timothy’s grip tightens to the point of pain, holding Rhys fast as he peels the backing off with his teeth. He slaps the patch down on the inside of Rhys’ wrist and lets go all in one movement.

Rhys jerks back, metal fingers scrabbling at the patch, but it’s medical-grade and won’t come off without a solvent. He tries to get to his feet as the first wave of dizziness hits him, but only manages to sit up a few inches before slumping back. He stares at his right hand, trying to remember the sequence to activate his emergency alert; but his thoughts are already floating apart, and his head lists back against his chair, suddenly too heavy to hold up.

Timothy’s - Jack’s -  _ Timothy’s _ face comes into view, and he picks up Rhys’ left wrist, taking his pulse as Rhys fights to keep his eyes open.

There’s something important Rhys needs to say, but he can’t remember what it is.

“I know this looks bad,” Timothy says, putting Rhys’ hand down. “But if you can remember this later, I’m doing this for your own good. Both of you.”

Rhys remembers what he wanted to say.

“Fuck.” He grinds out. Words are hard. “ _ You _ ,” he says to Jack’s face, which smiles tiredly before patting his hand.

“Hold on to that thought,” Jack’s face says, and then the world slips away.

 

* * *

Rhys wakes up to Jack’s hand on his cheek, which is so familiar that he turns into it with a sigh before he remembers.

The hand jerks away as Rhys stirs, and when he opens his eyes Jack is standing a good two paces away, arms crossed over his chest, scowling off somewhere to the left. Rhys pushes himself into a sitting position, waits for the vertigo to recede, and surveys the room. It looks like someone’s office; in fact, Rhys thinks he recognizes the overseer’s office at the joint mining facility in the Badlands. It’s in somewhat worse shape than the last time Rhys saw it: the contents of the desk have been swept to the floor, the drawers pulled out and upended; the keypad for the door is sparking and hanging by a solitary wire, beeping sadly; and the door itself has several dents in it, possibly from the desk chair lying on its side behind Jack.

“What’s going on?” He says, voice still groggy, and Jack makes a face.

“Your guess is as good as mine, sw- sweater-vest.” Rhys glances down at himself; he’s down to his vest and shirtsleeves, yes, but it’s been years, longer than Jack’s known him, since he’s worn anything like  _ that _ . “I take it that dickhead came to see you too?”

“If by ‘that dickhead’ you mean ‘your favorite body double,’ then yes,” Rhys replies, scratching at the patch on his wrist absently. It’s starting to itch as it dries, contents expended. Jack glances down and Rhys forces his fingers to stop, but Jack just snorts and extends his arm, where three identical patches grace the inside of his forearm.

“Looks like he got to me first,” Jack says bitterly. “He had better be off-planet when I get out of here, or so help me -”

Something buzzes on Rhys’ person and he starts, scrambling to his feet and patting himself down. He finds a vibrating Hyperion-model ECHO-comm in his front right pocket, and he pulls it out and thumbs it on warily.

“Hello?” He says, although he thinks he knows who’s on the other end.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” Sure enough, Timothy’s voice pours out of the little speaker, tinny and crackly with distance but unmistakable. “It’s easier if I only have to explain this once.”

“Explain what -” Rhys starts, but Jack growls and grabs the comm out of his hands before he can finish, half turning away.

“Listen up, asshole,” Jack growls. “I guess you think this is  _ funny, _ ha ha, might’ve spent too long in low-g if this your idea of a  _ joke,  _ but we’ve all had a good laugh now, so  _ open this goddamn door _ .” His voice tightens on each word until he’s practically gritting them out between clenched teeth.

There’s silence on the other end of the line, then Timothy clears his throat. “Are you done?”

“Done? I am not  _ done _ , you little shithead, I’ll let you know when I’m  _ done _ -”

“Yeah, you’re done.” Timothy cuts Jack off and Jack’s fingers tighten. “Give the comm back to Rhys.”

“ _ Timothy _ -”

“ _ Jack _ .” Timothy mimics Jack’s tone exactly, which Rhys supposes he is paid to do, but it’s - interesting, to say the least, to see it turned back on Jack himself. From the way Jack’s knuckles whiten, it doesn’t happen very often. “Give it back to Rhys, or this conversation is over.”

For a long moment Rhys thinks Jack isn’t going to comply, fingers tight around the device. Then he turns back toward Rhys, raising it to his mouth as he does so.

“We’re going to have a long chat about things like  _ insubordination _ when I get out of here, Tim,” Jack says, the threat curling around each word.

“I look forward to it,” Timothy says dryly. “Now put Rhys on.”

Jack hands the comm back to Rhys. “Maybe you can talk some sense into him.” He fold his arms, eyes dark.

Rhys takes the device and raises it back to his mouth. “Hello, Timothy.”

“Hi.” If Timothy is at all fazed by Jack’s bluster he doesn’t sound it. Rhys supposes he must have had practice with it. “I guess you’re wondering what this is all about.”

“In fact, I am.” Rhys says calmly. “Atlas doesn’t take kindly to acts of intercorporate warfare.”

“Yeah,” Timothy sounds amused. “I don’t doubt it. Good thing that’s not what this is.”

Rhys raises his eyebrows even as Jack twirls his hand in a  _ hurry up _ gesture. “No? You kidnapped me out of my office in broad daylight.”

“Hm.” Timothy hums thoughtfully. “I bet you that’s not what the security feeds will show. I bet the security feeds will show the Hyperion president visiting his business partner - and good timing too, because the Atlas president suffered some sort of health complication in his office. All that work, it can’t be good for you, you know.” Rhys can practically hear the grin in Timothy’s voice. “ _ Fortunately _ , the Hyperion president was on hand to ferry him  _ personally _ to a waiting medicopter via the private elevators in the executive office. You know,” Tim says. “The ones that he still has access to.”

Rhys breathes deliberately, in and out, holding Jack’s gaze as Jack raises his eyebrows. “An oversight on my part.”

“Well, it certainly made my job easier.” The line distorts for a minute as if Tim’s moving, then clears again. “So thanks for that.”

“And what  _ is _ your job, in this case,” Rhys asks. “What is it that you want out of all of this?”

“What I  _ want _ is for you two to get your shit together,” Tim says matter-of-factly, and Rhys blinks. “I’ve heard your name about ten times more since whatever sort of lover’s spat you two had, and honestly, Jack,” Tim says, switching targets as Rhys turns that over, “you don’t pay me enough to be your therapist.”

“I don’t pay you to kidnap me, either,” Jack spits, but he won’t meet Rhys’ eyes.

“True. This one’s on the house. Here’s the deal,” Tim says. “You two clearly have something going on, but because you’re both the way that you are you refuse to talk to each other about it. And that’s bullshit.” Tim’s voice hardens for a minute, then evens out again. “So I’m giving you the opportunity. If you can be adults about it, great. If you can’t –“ Tim sighs. “Well, I’ll be on a beach on Eden-6 on Jack’s expense account, so at least I’ll have a head start.”

Jack makes a strangled sound, and Rhys eyes the red creeping out from behind the mask carefully. “If you’re on Eden-6, who’s going to unlock this door?”

There’s a sound like Tim snapping his fingers. “That’s right. There’s an ECHO-pad on the desk with a document indemnifying one Timothy Lawrence against all actions, perceived or otherwise, taken against Atlas or Hyperion. Sign it – both of you – and the door unlocks. Don’t, and you can explain to the morning shift how two company presidents managed to lock themselves inside an office. They should be there in about six hours.”

Jack’s already moving toward the mess on the floor, kneeling down to search through the debris from the desk. Rhys watches, turning the comm absently in his fingers. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Tim says, just as a muffled voice that Rhys can’t quite make out starts speaking. “That’s my boarding call – gotta go. Have fun, kids! See you on the other side.”

There’s a soft  _ click _ and the line goes dead.

Rhys slowly thumbs the comm off just as Jack stands, triumphantly brandishing an ECHO-pad. Jack powers it on, mouth flattening as he reads the document it displays, but he’s already pulling a stylus from an inside jacket pocket. He scribbles a signature on the bottom and thrusts the pad and stylus at Rhys.

“Come on,” he growls, not making eye contact. “The sooner you sign this bullshit the sooner we’re out of here.”

Rhys sets the comm down slowly and takes the pad and stylus. This seems too easy; Tim went to a lot of trouble for all of this –

Then he glances down at the stylus in his hand, and blinks.

“This is mine,” Rhys says before he can think about it, and he hears Jack suck in a breath.

“What?” Jack takes a half step forward as Rhys looks up. “Nah. Is it?” Jack’s trying for casual, Rhys can tell, but he falls somewhat short of the mark. Jack makes a grab for the stylus but Rhys holds it back out of reach.

“It has  _ Atlas _ branded on it.” Rhys holds it up, showing him, and Jack scowls.

“It. I.” Rhys has rarely seen Jack at a loss for words, but he doesn’t seem to know what to say now. “So I stole your pen. Fine. Whatever. Just  _ sign _ the goddamn thing, will you?”

Rhys sets the pad down, weighing the stylus absently in his palm. “In a minute. Do you know why I have this branded on my forearm?”

Jack folds his arms, brows drawing down. “Because you’re a goddamned narcissist. Welcome to the club. Are we really doing this?”

“Yeah, we’re doing this.” Rhys says, letting the little flare of anger, of  _ hurt _ that’s been his constant companion since a Helios medbay flare up and infuse his voice. “It’s a reminder of when people looked at me and that’s all they saw.  _ Atlas. _ Destiny, right?” Rhys bares his teeth and Jack rocks back half a step. “Maybe. But if it was it was  _ mine _ , and I was young. I had years of work before I could make it a reality; years in which someone could find out and use it against me. So it had to go.”

Jack blinks, opening his mouth like he’s going to say something, but Rhys isn’t finished. “The word went back on when I made CEO. I’m  _ –  _ I  _ was _ the only one who knew. And then you –“ Jack shuts his mouth as Rhys gestures, stylus held tight in his fist. “You had  _ no clue _ . Do you have  _ any _ idea how good that felt? You looked at me and you saw  _ me _ – not the company, not a goddamned  _ word _ , but  _ me. _ You  _ didn’t know _ . And you –“ Rhys stops as his throat tightens.

_ And you loved me anyway. _

It’s too much – Rhys doesn’t even know if it’s true. He swallows, letting the silence stretch between them.

Jack remains silent, frowning vaguely at Rhys’ feet.

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Rhys says tiredly. There’s more he wants to say –

_ I don’t regret it, any of it. _

_ I wish it didn’t have to end like this. _

_ I wish it didn’t have to end. _

\- but it all seems like too much, and not enough.

Rhys reaches for the ECHO-pad, signing the bottom without reading the contents. The  _ click _ of the door unlocking is loud in the silence.

“There,” Rhys says, tossing the pad back on the desk, stylus still clenched tight in his fist. “It’s done.”

_ It’s over _ .

Jack’s between him and the door; and that feels like a metaphor for  _ something _ , only Rhys is suddenly too tired to figure out what. He tucks his stylus into a vest pocket and moves toward the door, ready to be out of this place, out of this  _ mess  _ –

Jack’s hand lands tight on his arm as he brushes by, and Rhys halts in his tracks.

“If we’d been somewhere else,” Jack says, still not looking at him, although his hand is bruising tight on Rhys’ arm. “I’d we’d met on – I don’t know, fucking  _ Eden-6 _ or something. Do you think you would have told me?”

Rhys sighs. There’s no point in lying.

“No,” he says.

Jack laughs, short and sharp, but it’s tinged with – it almost sounds like  _ relief _ .

“Good,” he says. “Because I’d have dumped your body somewhere scenic, and that would have been a freaking  _ waste _ .”

Rhys blinks, but Jack’s already swinging him back around and then Jack’s hands are on his arms and he’s crowding into Rhys’ space and Rhys’ ass hit the desk just as Jack’s mouth lands on his.

Jack kisses like he’s trying to prove a point, but if he is it’s in a language Rhys doesn’t speak; even so he presses back into it, unable to stop himself.

Jack pulls back and rests his forehead against Rhys’, hands still tight on Rhys’ biceps. “I didn’t know I was taking them,” he says, and Rhys’ doesn’t follow at all until Jack lets go and reaches one hand into his left-breast pocket, pulling out another  _ Atlas _ -branded stylus. “At first I thought you were planting them on me somehow, but you always kept your distance - and now I know why. No, stop it,” he says as Rhys tenses.

“It’s like the pens, right?” Jack grins at the expression on Rhys’ face. “They kept showing up; and it was  _ me _ .  _ I  _ was taking them, even before I knew what it meant. What  _ this _ meant.”

Rhys’ chest tightens, and he tries to stamp down on the hope rising there, because it’s  _ too much _ to hope for, after everything –

“I’m not gonna let biology tell me who to be with,” Jack murmurs, brushing his lips over Rhys’ temple. “But hell if I’ll let it  _ keep _ me from you, either.”

Rhys puts his hands on Jack’s chest; not pushing him away, just to feel Jack’s chest rise and fall under his palms.

“Do this mean you’ll be giving them back?” He tries lightly.

Jack grins, and it’s a promise. “Never.”

 

* * *

 

The headlines the following week are everything Rhys expected and more.

_ C-SUITE SWEETHEARTS AT MIDNIGHT MINE MEETING!! THE REAL REASON THEY CAN’T STAY APART. _

_ TRUE LOVE OR ERIDIUM POISONING? OUR EXPERTS WEIGH IN. _

_ HYPERION-ATLAS OR ATLAS-HYPERION? WHO’S REALLY ON TOP? _

Jack has that last one framed and hung in his office, with  _ HYPERION _ circled three times and the word  _ DUH _ scribbled underneath it. Rhys can’t help but smile every time he looks at it.

“Hey,” Jack snaps his fingers, drawing Rhys’ attention back to where he’s sitting on the other side of the desk, Elpis looming bright behind him. “Pay attention. We’re supposed to be doing business here.”

“Is that what you call this.” Rhys looks at the mess spread over Jack’s desk, ECHO-pads and scribbled notes and hour-old takeout, and at Jack himself on the other side, leaning back in that golden chair with his feet kicked up on the desk.

“ _ Yeah _ .” Jack says, the  _ stupid _ clearly implied. Then he leans back, the lines of his shoulders dropping into something more relaxed, lips curving upward. “Unless you’ve got something else to bring to the table?”

“Hm.” Rhys links his hands together and stretches them over his head, deliberately rolling his head back to expose the long line of his neck. When he drops his arm back down, slinging one over the back of the guest chair, Jack’s eyes have gone hot and dark and are fixed somewhere on Rhys’ collarbone. “What did you have in mind, Hyperion?”

Jack drops his feet off the table and leans forward, gesturing. Rhys meets him halfway and Jack grabs his collar, pulling him in.

“Eighteen percent.” Jack’s voice is low and warm. “Eighteen percent and you come home with me tonight.”

Rhys hums thoughtfully. “Twenty percent. Twenty percent,” he continues when Jack looks like he might protest, “and I come home with you for the next three days.”

Jack’s hand tightens on Rhys’ collar, like Rhys is going anywhere.

“Thirty percent,” Jack says fiercely, and Rhys blinks at the sudden leap. “Thirty percent and you come home with me forever.”

There’s silence in Jack’s office except for the pounding of Rhys’ heart in his chest, so loud he’s sure Jack can hear it too.

Jack’s staring at him, the tightness around his eyes the only betrayal of – of whatever’s going on in his head.

“Deal,” Rhys says, and the small rush of breath from Jack is the only warning he gets before he’s jerked forward. Jack’s mouth on his is hot and demanding, and Rhys leans into it.

There are things Rhys is willing to negotiate on. It turns out that Jack isn’t one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at [ThirtySixSaveFiles](http://thirtysixsavefiles.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [ThirtySixSaveFiles](http://thirtysixsavefiles.tumblr.com) on Tumblr!


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